Let me see: Livingstone died in endeavouring to solve the problem of the Lualaba River. John Hanning Speke died by a gun-shot wound during a discussion as to whether Lake Victoria was one lake, as he maintained it to be; or whether, as asserted by Captain Burton, James McQueen, and other theorists, it consisted of a cluster of lakes. Lake Tanganyika, being a sweet-water lake, must naturally possess an outlet somewhere. It has not been circumnavigated and is therefore unexplored. I will settle that problem also. Then I may be able to throw some light on Lake Albert. Sir Samuel Baker voyaged along some sixty miles of its north-eastern shore, but he said it was illimitable to the south-west. To know the extent of that lake would be worth some trouble. Surely, if I can resolve any of these, which such travellers as Dr. Livingstone, Captains Burton, Speke, and Grant, and Sir Samuel Baker left unsettled, people must needs believe that I discovered Livingstone! A little while after the burial[21] of Livingstone at Westminster, I strolled over to the office of the ‘Daily Telegraph,’ and pointed out to the proprietors how much remained shrouded in mystery in Dark Africa. The proprietor asked, ‘But do you think you can settle all these interesting geographical problems?’ ‘Nay, Mr. Lawson,[22] that is not a fair question. I mean to say I can do my level best, that nothing on my part shall be lacking to make a systematic exploration which shall embrace all the regions containing these secrets; but Africa includes so many dangers from man, beast, and climate, that it would be the height of immeasurable conceit to say I shall be successful. My promise that I will endeavour to be even with my word, must be accepted by you as sufficient.’ ‘Well, well! I will cable over to Bennett of the New York “Herald,” and ask if he is willing to join in this expedition of yours.’ Deep under the Atlantic, the question was flashed. Gordon Bennett tore open the telegram in New York City, and, after a moment’s thought, snatched a blank form and wrote, ‘Yes! Bennett.’ This was the answer put into my hand the same day at 135, Fleet Street. You may imagine my feelings, as I read the simple monosyllable which was my commission: bales, packages, boxes, trunks, bills, letters, flowing in a continuous stream; the writing, telegraphing, and nervous hurry and flurry of each day’s work, until we sailed! Follow me in thought to the deck of the steam-ferry across the English Channel; fancy that you hear my plucky fisher-boys from the Medway,[23] saying to the white cliffs of Dover, ‘Good-bye, dear England! and if for ever, then for ever good-bye, O England!’ Think of us a few weeks later, arrived at Zanzibar, where we make our final preparations for the long journey we are about to make. Zanzibar is an island, as I suppose you know, situate three hundred and sixty-nine miles south of the Equator, and about twenty miles from the eastern mainland.